by Jean Gill
A slant of sunshine grooved the furrows in Malik’s face even deeper. Estela had never thought about his age before and, suddenly, she noticed how much older he looked. Could age sneak up on a person like this? Could she be ambushed by furrows and grey hairs? Would it be worse to find herself suddenly old or to notice each little change as it happened? She shivered.
Still frowning, Malik asked, ‘Who is this de Rançon?’
‘He didn’t know the effect that mentioning the poppy would have. Most people don’t know what the poppy does. Dragonetz only knew because Muganni told him. And we know because we saw it.’ There was no need to remind Malik of what they had seen when they’d imprisoned Dragonetz to purge him of the drug.
If anything, Malik frowned more deeply. ‘He knew the likely effect of calling Dragonetz Oath-breaker.’
‘He had to. Aliénor commanded it and you know what she’s like. It would have been even worse from someone else.’ She answered the earlier question. ‘He’s Dragonetz’ childhood friend. They were brothers-in-arms in the Crusade and then last year de Rançon took me to the Holy Land to rescue Dragonetz, when he was in trouble. He saved Dragonetz’ life. Gilles was there.’
She didn’t mention the details Geoffroi had given her, which reflected badly on Dragonetz. How de Rançon the elder had been dismissed as Aliénor’s Commander because of Dragonetz: had returned home with his son, disgraced; had been replaced by Dragonetz. And how Geoffroi had forgiven his friend for all the mistakes and damage caused.
Estela preferred not to dwell on Dragonetz’ past, nor to remember that Gilles had warned her against her lover, after listening to de Rançon’s stories during their journey. Gilles had come round once they’d met up with Dragonetz again and bygones could be left as bygones.
‘I will tell him,’ she said simply. ‘Geoffroi. Not to mention the poppy or let Dragonetz have any, even if he asks for it.’
‘No,’ was Malik’s judgement. ‘We should hide our friend’s weakness, not shout it to anyone, not even to another friend.’
‘Then what should I do?’
‘Tell de Rançon that all medicines in Les Baux are distributed by you or by me as part of the enlightened view that practitioners should be licensed, so if he wishes to make the poppy available then he should place it in our hands. That you are the dispenser for Lady Etiennette and her vassals, and also for Dragonetz.’
It was Estela’s turn to frown. ‘That’s what I said in the Great Hall.’
‘Then make it so.’
Suddenly Estela knew where all her studies had been leading. ‘That is what I want! To be like Nicholaus of Salerno; to note and list the ingedients, administer medicines. To be a chemist. I don’t want to be a surgeon at all!’
Some shift in the light made a flicker of what could almost have been relief cross Malik’s face. ‘You excel in such work,’ he told her.
‘I will speak to Lady Etiennette too! If she makes it more formal then Geoffroi will naturally turn to me for advice rather than speak ill-advisedly to Dragonetz!’
‘Let us hope so.’
‘We shall keep Dragonetz safe and healthy. I am not letting him go through that again!’ She realised what she was saying and sighed. ‘Healthy then. There’s no keeping a man like that safe. I’m worried about this tourney too.’
Malik’s eyes gleamed. ‘A man takes the risks he must.’
‘Do you think he’s right? I know he’s behind the choice of leaders and sides.’
‘I think his purpose is right. He wants men to form bonds through dangerous sport, as they do through his training methods. My Lord Ramon is a peerless warrior and his support for Hugues on this play-battlefield will give that young man a taste of what it would be like to ride with Barcelone instead of against him.
Dragonetz and I working together might be able to shape this tourney to our ends but much will fall to him as I have the young Comte to protect. It is worth a throw of the dice I think but the outcome will be as Allah wills.’
The words ‘our ends’ reassured Estela. If Malik and Dragonetz were on the same side in their intentions as well as in the mock-battle, surely good would prevail. ‘Inshallah,’ she echoed.
‘You said there was another matter?’ he prodded gently.
‘I’d forgotten!’ Estela unrolled the fabric she was carrying. ‘Can you read this?’
An hour later, Estela hurried to her duties with Lady Etiennette, none the wiser about the origins of her Moorish treasure. She had learned much about the symbolism of Arabic swirls and how a pious artisan would remain anonymous in his work. None of this explained what looked like a signature beside the same pattern that was engraved on Estela’s oud. Nor did it explain how Estela’s mother - or rather her forebears - had come by the instrument in the first place.
All Estela remembered being told was that the oud was a family heirloom and that she would be the first in many generations to do it justice. How typical of the Gyptian to add another puzzle into Estela’s life! When Estela found time, she would make another visit to the cave and squeeze all the information she wanted out of that sour old malediction.
As if there wasn’t enough to occupy her thoughts in the news from Aquitaine - and its impact on her knight. What had the old woman said about him? ‘I see his path, the one you’re tied to, the Oath-breaker.’ Estela’s retort had been true - Dragonetz was no oath-breaker! - and yet, he’d been named so, publicly. Perhaps the evil words about Estela herself would find some twisted way of being spoken, without being true. Perhaps the world would believe her unfaithful to Dragonetz. How could she fight against words that wriggled into the core of her life, worms in the sweet fruit, waiting an innocent bite?
When Dragonetz finally awoke, his head was heavy with some vague presentiment of doom. Then he remembered the events of the previous night and understood that it was no presentiment. A knock at the door brought further confirmation of his shame via a messenger bearing a saddle-bag.
Alone, Dragonetz took the missives out of the saddle-bag, one letter with Aliénor’s seal, one with the dragon seal of his ex-domain, Ruffec, and a short note in his mother’s own hand, unsealed. No doubt de Rançon had enjoyed the blurred letters where tears had fallen, the hope that an explanation would bring forgiveness and most of all the unspoken hurt that her son had shamed the family name.
There was no such bewilderment in the letters from Aliénor’s notary or his father. Legalese in one, and penstrokes like swordthrusts in the other; both cast him off formally. Dragonetz let his anger burn to white, controlled, the cutting edge to his purpose and then he sought out his first target.
She came at once to his message, an admission in itself, and she waited for him to speak first.
He offered no title. ‘You knew of this and said nothing.’
The Lady of Les Baux said, ‘I knew nothing when I sent for you except that there was bound to be unrest with Aliénor courting the self-styled heir to the English throne. The alliance between Aquitaine and Anjou, with England as the golden apple just within reach, threatened France. Louis was bound to challenge Henri’s increasing power in the north. But this,’ she shrugged, ‘was common knowledge. And you were still in Marselha. I thought news would have reached you and if you chose to remain in the south, it was for your own reasons.’
My reasons. Still weak from the poppy, recovering, spending time with my lady and my child, far from the world and its madness, knowing nothing of Aliénor’s machinations and caring less, Dragonetz did not say. ‘We had withdrawn from the world. And I received no messenger but yours.’ He was letting her off the hook and she knew it. The atmosphere lightened. Too easy he thought and added, ‘You kept news from me, here, didn’t you.’
Her turn to concede a point. ‘I always hear messengers in private but no, I did not discuss their news with you for fear you would go north. I need you. Provence needs you. Aliénor has others, as does Henri Courtmantel.’ She turned her plain features towards him, fully lit, guileless. ‘I receive
d neither message nor messenger for you personally, only my own men with news.
You care about Provence! You don’t care about the north and you certainly don’t care about England, that mud-bath of a barbaric island! If Henri does take his much-vaunted inheritance away from his Uncle Stephen, he’ll waste all his men and time fighting the heathen Welsh!’
‘Maybe. But Aliénor is - was - my Liege Lord and I was honour-bound to obey her command.’
‘The command which never reached you. God’s will be done.’
‘Lady Aliénor prefers God’s will to coincide with her own.’ In that, the two women were alike, thought Dragonetz, studying the ruler of Les Baux. He knew her well enough to believe what she was telling him and in truth, he could not blame her for the outcome of her small evasions. His ignorance of events was his own fault.
‘Nothing has changed,’ she told him. ‘You are the solution for Provence’
‘Everything has changed,’ he replied, bowed and left.
Then he sought out the second person he must charge with the same accusations, prepared this time to gain no satisfaction. He was not prepared to be received in formal court, with Malik standing guard on his lord’s right hand and de Rançon on the left of the young Comte, who sat in state beside his uncle. Dragonetz gritted his teeth and knelt to Ramon Berenguer, Comte de Barcelone, Regent of Provence.
‘Rise, my Lord Dragonetz,’ Ramon ordered. ‘You are always welcome in my court.’
‘You welcome oath-breakers?’
‘Even El Sidi had a time in exile, riding with those he had previously fought against.’
‘When you asked for my oath of allegiance and I told you Aliénor was my liege, you knew I should have been at her side, that she needed me.’ The accusation drew a shift in posture from Barcelone’s guards, ready to act if required. Malik tensed. To stab him or save him, wondered Dragonetz.
He focused on Barcelone, ignoring the dancing eyes of Aliénor’s popinjay and the round eyes of the young Comte, who had surely never heard anyone challenge his uncle in such a manner.
Ramon stood up and the ring of steel half-drawn echoed in the hall. Slightly shorter than Dragonetz, he held the knight’s gaze. ‘I was surprised that you did not go to her,’ he said, his tone calm, measuring. ‘I judged it unlike you to hold back from duty to a liege. I was right, was I not?’
Dragonetz looked down to avoid being unmanned by words that both let blood and applied salve to his wound, in one deft move. He understood why he had been received in public. It was so that Ramon Berenguer could declare Dragonetz an honourable knight, no oath-breaker, in front of the whole gathering, in front of de Rançon.
‘And now things have changed and you are free to choose your allegiance,’ Ramon continued.
Dragonetz’ every muscle ached. This was the moment he would be backed into a corner, forced to swear to Barcelone or insult him for Les Baux’s sake. Which would he do?
‘And you have time to think on your changed circumstances.’
Dragonetz looked up, faced the ruler who could have taken his sword but chose instead to wait until it was offered. He could not speak but knelt and kissed the hand that was offered before Ramon returned to his chair.
‘Can I tell him now, Uncle?’ asked the young Comte, his eyes shining. He barely waited for Ramon’s nod before continuing. ‘We have one more for our team. Hugues des Baux has allowed us to have an extra man, given my youth. Of course, he is wrong and I shall deliver the worth of a full man at the tourney but I shall not fight over a decision that gives us such a knight for our team.’
‘This is good news,’ said Dragonetz gently. ‘And who is this warrior we have gained?’ He already knew the answer.
‘Your friend, my Lord de Rançon,’ revealed the youth with pride, while de Rançon looked every bit the humble, flattered vassal.
‘That is indeed great news.’ Dragonetz hoped his enthusiasm was every bit as convincing as the slap on his back delivered by ‘friend Geoffroi’. He suspected that he would never be the other man’s equal in dissimulation but now was a good time to start practising. Even Malik looked pleased at the ‘great news’. Dragonetz swallowed his bile and smiled.
‘We have a battle plan,’ the young Comte informed his team leader, ‘but I can’t tell you in front of the enemy.’
His uncle smiled. ‘The enemy is worried,’ he said. ‘And we have our own battle plans.’
‘In Dragonetz we trust,’ declared de Rançon.
‘Inshallah,’ murmured Malik, his hand now relaxed on his sabre-hilt.
Dragonetz looked at his ill-assorted team members: the boy and knight alight with the prospect of action, his Moorish friend, calm and seasoned. Barcelone was the still centre, indulging the enthusiasm of his opponents-to-be.
It was Barcelone, his enemy, who had raised Dragonetz above the waves of personal doubt, reminded him of who he was, and it was to the Comte that he spoke. ‘To meet such opponents in the field can only bring honour to all, whatever the outcome.’ He bowed in homage, then addressed the youth. ‘I fear we are already outshone in finery. Have you seen Les Baux’s banner?’ A shake of the head. ‘My spies tell me of a magnificent banner, a star and a saint to support our enemy.’
The young Comte’s smile wavered. ‘But we have a banner too, don’t we? And colours?’
Suddenly, Dragonetz felt the rush of blood he needed. Action! ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘we have a magnificent banner. And enough blue ribbons to join the windows of Les Baux to your castle in Barcelone.’ Ramon nodded. Yes, they shared the same goal.
Dragonetz continued speaking to the young Comte. ‘Tell your lady-love to pin blue ribbons to her sleeve.’ The youth looked sheepish. ‘If you can’t choose between, then tell all your lady-loves,’ Dragonetz teased him. ‘I swear we shall win any tourney in ladies with ribbons.’
‘Unfair, my Lord!’ protested Ramon. ‘My Queen has gone, and her ladies with her.’
‘I think you’ll find my Lord Hugues can help the cause,’ countered Dragonetz.
Finally, he turned to de Rançon. ‘Let it be a fight that men speak of in years to come. A fair fight with honour, that earns only renown.’ He was not speaking of the tourney. De Rançon nodded, a glittering cypher.
Chapter 25
If a person, man or woman, eats or drinks a love enchantment, then plantain juice, with or without water, should be given to him to drink. Later, he should take some strong drink, and he will be purged inside and be relieved.
Physica, Plants
At last, Estela had completed her duties and could seek out her old friend, to catch up on all the news he brought. She pricked a pattern of holes in a doomed piece of linen to look busy while she waited in a window-seat, her attention straying out of the window-slits. Below, the marketeers were packing up their goods into carts while donkeys waited patiently. So patiently in fact that they showed no interest in moving once the carts were laden. The routine curses and thwacking of sticks followed and then the train started off towards the gate, heading out of the town.
Estela imagined the farms and settlements in the countryside where the traders milked goats and cows, grew vines, kept sheep. What would happen to them all if Les Baux went to war against Barcelone once again? She knew from Sancha the damage caused before the truce, each side burning crops and killing livestock to stop the other profiting; peasants and tradesmen being taxed by both sides to pay for soldiers, armour and weapons. Bleeding the land. Not a healthy purge in her professional opinion but a cause of death if not stopped.
And yet, Sancha was willing to see such carnage again, for the sake of the Baux ‘right’ to Provence. Sancha, who fainted at the thought of blood, never mind the sight of it, wanted war. It made no sense. Was this the proper way for a lady to think? To cheer her knight on to war from the sidelines of a sewing-room like a spectator at a tourney?
She stabbed the linen again, noting that the pattern was like that on her oud and would be very pretty - if Sancha did the embro
idery. But no lady could stay in the sewing-room if there really was war. Sancha must know that too. War for ladies meant taking on the management and defence of the stronghold if the lord was out in the field; making the most of the old men, women and children, who were the only people left to carry out that defense; bearing arms yourself if you could; and of course in defeat, everyone knew what would happen to a lady! Sancha most of all! No, it made no sense that anybody would want war.
‘My Lady? I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long - Barcelone detained me. It seems everybody wants my news.’ De Rançon bowed low, the double imprint of his lips warm on her hand. His rueful smile suited a face that was still boyish, northern in its regular features, framed by honey-brown curls. And those eyes. Rings of clear colour, no colour, changing colours; sparkling like a magical spell in a fairy-tale. Even when a girl had spent months with him as a travelling companion, had camped in a forest and shared secrets with him, those eyes still held a glamour. Especially when her lover’s best friend looked at her with such devotion. As was due to Dragonetz’ lady, of course.
Estela remembered that she was annoyed. She did not need to be polite or careful with somebody who’d witnessed her seasickness. ‘You shouldn’t have offered the poppy to Dragonetz! It’s hard enough for him to forego it without the temptation being put under his nose when he’s had such a blow! And couldn’t you have told him such news more privately?!’
The rueful expression deepened and the eyes dulled. ‘You know Aliénor. She charged me with the message, to be given in public - made me swear an oath. All I could think was that it would be better from me than from somebody else, who might twist the words. And then I would be here to help him, afterwards.’
